


Simple Technicality

by animehead



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Humor, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 23:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animehead/pseuds/animehead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re not together anymore, but it’s chill. It’s all chill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simple Technicality

**Author's Note:**

> Edited the tags thanks to the lovely Stridersong and their helpful tip along with their smashing personality.

You can’t help but look at her when she saunters up to you. The others write her off as being nothing more than an obsessed fangirl with the incapability of controlling the volume level of her voice or her _feels_.  
  
Well, that’s motherfuckin’ fine with you. Your wicked kittybitch has reached a level of finesse those other bitches can only dream about.  
  
But she’s not really yours anymore, is she?  
  
Not like she _used_ to be.  
  
You watch as she lowers her hands to the button on her skirt. She fumbles with it for a second, blushes embarrassedly, loses character, but it’s all good. You know she’ll motherfuckin’ pick that shit up again, and you’re right. Her skirt falls from her hips, to the ground, and pools around her feet. She’s not wearing any panties.  
  
Kinky ass.  
  
Poise plentiful, she straddles your thighs. Her claws drag their way your chest and continue south until they’re ghosting over your covered bulge. You use your hand to stop her, but she knocks it away.  
  
All right, that’s chill. But she can’t expect you to just lie idle while she caresses you, can she?  
  
You reach up, sliding your hands beneath her shirt, and wrap both your hands around the swell of her breasts. Your down ass bitch positively _mewls_ at that and you’re so fucked up because you’re _thankful_ that is was her who loss her hearing and not you.  
  
You couldn’t wrap your motherfuckin’ think pan around never being able to hear that sound.  
  
You don’t stop her when she frees your bulge from its confines. You _do_ stop her when she licks her lips and starts to lower her head.  
  
Normally, you’re cool with her wanting to be all up and sucking you, making you tear into the mattress and praise the messiah that he’s blessed you with a bitch like her. But tonight you just want to be inside of her, to feel her nook gripping your bulge, squeezing, contracting, and quivering around it.  
  
You’ll never get tired of watching her face when you slide inside of her, the green tint of her cheeks telling you that even though she isn’t yours _technically_ , she’s still yours and always will be.  
  
You fucked up, shit happens. It always motherfuckin’ does, but that shit still eats away at you. Thoughts of what things could have been consume you, but she leans down--a gasp slipping from her lips--and kisses that noise away.  
  
Or at least she tries to.  
  
Motherfuckin’ stitches getting in the way of all that sensual flushed shit, so you settle for simply brushes your lips against hers. You thrust into her and you she grinds back down, whimpering your name. It’s one of the ways you know she’s lost in the moment, that she’s not actively trying to control the level of her voice. She doesn’t know how loud or soft it is, more importantly, she doesn’t _care_.  
  
Everything’s wet.  
  
You’re both dripping, smearing against each other’s thighs, staining your mattress since you’re not about any of that making up the bed noise. You don’t care about the stains. There’s plenty of them, purple and green all spattered about your lumpy cushiony canvas.  
  
When she shouts and her tail stiffens, you feel the pull of your stitched lips threatening to rip apart. You want to scream, want to apologize, to make her go, beg her to fuckin’ stay.  
  
 _Please motherfuckin’ stay._  
  
You settle for shutting your eyes and flooding her nook with your genetic material.  
  
You grip her waist and raise her just a bit to see the mess she’s made of the lower half of your body. When you set her back down, you sign the words, “Looks like sopor,” and she blushes, laughs, and bats at your hand.  
  
She climbs off of you and lies next to you on the bed. You lean over, reach into the chest next to your bed, and pull out something you know will amuse her. When you hand it to her, she shakes her head.  
  
She makes quick work of her hand signals. _“I can’t.”_  
  
As do you. _“Never thought to be seeing my mage spit any of this can’t foolishness.”_  
  
“Kurloz.” The sound of your name on her lips soothes the constant battle of royal rage inside of you.  
  
 _“For me,”_ you sign.  
  
She sighs, but takes the notebook from your hand. “Which one should I read?”  
  
You hold up your hand, palm up and facing the ceiling, silently telling her that the choice is hers. You’re motherfuckin’ chill with whatever.  
  
“How about Kankri and Cronus?” She laughs at that and you grin because that motherfuckin’ shit is classic.  
  
She reads you Vantas and Ampora shipping fanfiction until you fall asleep.  
  
When you awake hours later, she’s lying next to you, asleep. You’re feeling on edge. Shit is hitting your think pan, like non-believers, beheaded, ripped apart, the most miraculous of miracles, wet rainbows dripping all around you.  
  
You need to talk this shit out.  
  
You’re tempted to wake her with a bit of catnip and get this heavy shit brewing, but you don’t want to disturb her. Instead, you climb out of your bed, get dressed, and leave her alone in your hive. You know when you return, she’ll be gone.  
  
She always is.  
  
You walk along, not really thinking about much, other than reaching your destination. When you finally do, you knock on the door and wait patiently for it to be answered.  
  
There’s a loud crash followed by a slur of curses and various incoherent bullshit and you know your moirail is having another one of his episodes. You’re unfazed when the door is wrenched open and he shouts, “You fuckin’ want me?!” He realizes it’s you and apologizes. “I’m sorry.”  
  
You shrug and dangle a bag of the glorious stickiest of the icky in front of his face. Much like you would do for Meulin.  
  
Old habits die motherfuckin’ hard.  
  
Mituna breathes a sigh of relief, as if just seeing your face and that bag puts him in a calm place. That’s chill. You’re motherfuckin’ glad you can do that for him.  
  
Mituna pushes his door wider and waves you inside. “Fuck, I’m so glad you’re here.”


End file.
